Danse Macabre

“So.” Tony spoke up with a wince as he looked at the cuff marks on Stiles’ wrist, “You going to come clean about what you’re hiding or what?” 

Stiles pinned the billionaire with a blank stare. His hands were busy trailing the marks left on his wrist by Tony’s gadgets. He was still sceptical about this new alliance they’ve formed. He had the right to be paranoid, because look where trusting others have left him—alone, all his loved ones killed brutally, and forced into a manhunt. 

But he’s shit out of options, and teaming up with a famous multi-billionaire tech stardom genius (and superhero, because who would ever forget that) might not be the best idea when you’re trying to be as inconspicuous as possible—but unfortunately, it’s his only idea.

“What am I hiding?” Stiles feigned innocence.

Tony scoffed. “The easier question would be what are you not hiding.” He sat on one of the arm chairs situated near the blinded windows. “Come on, humor me.”

There was a tick in Stiles’ eyebrows. “Humor you?” 

“This conversation isn’t going anywhere if you keep on reflecting my words like a thick wall. And you’re anything but thick, so loosen up a little and start somewhere.” Tony leaned forward on his elbows perched atop his knees. “What happened that night?” 

Stiles took a moment to let the involuntary steel freeze his nerves and his muscle, took a longer moment to let it seep away as soon as it came. He figures it’s never going to go away, that some part of it will stay with him forever. To freeze and toughen up like magma in cold waters—and never be able to change back. 

He doesn’t mind.

He doesn’t. 

He’s grateful for the reminder. For the biting pain and the shock to his systems, running down his spine and settling in his bones. He wants it to stay. He needs it to stay, to fan the burning rage and injustice that he feels. 

He’d be damned if it ever burns out. 

“What happened is my team and I got screwed over by Agents Ward and Ryder and the four CIA operatives. It was premeditated, everything. They’d plan to kill us all, had back-up teams waiting outside the building in case we got out—which we,” Stiles winced, though his body language and vocal tone did nothing to show for it, “no, I did. From what I picked up, the true leader is someone Ward was reporting to, a higher-up within SHIELD. They tricked the CIA operatives into thinking they had the upper hand before killing them.” 

It wasn’t the tone of voice or temperament that he’d expected, especially for someone retelling such a recent heavy trauma. It was steel cold, detached, hard and deceptively vicious. If Tony didn’t know any better, he’d have thought that Stiles was just recounting someone else’s events instead of his own. 

“Is there any way you can prove your innocence?” Tony’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet, something resembling pity shining in his voice. 

“They had my gun, so ballistic reports would point to me. Then there’s Ward and Ryder’s testimony against me, and the body count. I’ve been known to go off the books, a rebellious leader, so I guess that’s enough circumstantial evidence to go after me.” Stiles busied himself with searching for and opening the first aid kit. “So much for loyalty.” 

Tony watched him carefully, for once dampening his urge to ask questions about his behavior. He didn’t need to because Stiles began to shed his clothing and the blooming red on his midriff gave him all the answers he needed. 

He figured Stiles wouldn’t appreciate the 20 questions about his wound, so he avoided it. Instead he focused on track with the actual discussion. 

“It doesn’t make sense.” Tony started on the doubts he’s had since he’s heard of this whole ordeal back in his office. “You’re elusive, you’re a legend, and your team has an impeccable record. You’re one of Fury’s favourites, your team’s as close as family, and it’s not exactly a secret. It’s hard to paint a picture of your betrayal, especially one so violent as a whole massacre. So, how’d they manage to do it?” 

The fugitive peeled off the makeshift bandage he hurriedly put together in his home, no—his previous residence, wincing at the act. The stitches were looking good, no signs of infection although it was a bit inflamed, but he’ll take what he can get. Stiles grabbed a rag and doused it with water, before cleaning his stitched up wound from the blood.

“I’m not sure what anyone thinks about this, maybe some of them are oblivious or even suspicious of all this, but all that matters is that they’re under orders to get me.” He threw the rag off to the side and made a move to open the bottle of disinfectant. “What they probably don’t know is that the second they march me in there, I’d be dead before I can say a word.” 

Tony made a noncommittal noise, his eyes training Stiles’ movements like a hawk. “Maybe. But my point wasn’t that this was an unlikely plan, it’s a very logical plan. What doesn’t make sense is that their plan involved setting you up.”

Stiles stopped his actions. His hand was holding the disinfectant, and the other was holding a clean cloth to absorb the liquid. It’s not like he hadn’t thought about it before, he has. He thought it ridiculous when Agent Ward and Ryder betrayed them, he even said it out loud. The words: ‘don’t you know who we are?’. 

“In fact, anyone in the agency would be a much easier picture to paint than you—be a hell of a lot easier target than you, definitely.” Tony added fuel to the flame. “Setting you up is more trouble than it’s worth.” 

He was right, of course. But Stiles chose to ignore it, choosing instead to go back to patching up his wound.

“Maybe it’s a coincidence.” He tried to shrug it off. 

“You and I both know there’s no such thing as coincidences.” Tony scoffed at his poor attempt. 

Stiles eyed Tony with such ire in his eyes that he just gave up putting a front with the man. “Fine, if you want to know what I think, then it’s probably because there’s no one else.” 

“No one else?” 

The younger man sighed, knowing that arguing with the billionaire genius would be more trouble than it's worth. He grabbed the disinfectant soaked cloth, took a deep breath, and pressed it hard against his stitches. The biting pain came instantly, causing him to seethe through his teeth.

“I got the mission because it was unnervingly suspicious.” Stiles talked through his pain. “There was almost no details, no plan, no straight lines drawn on anything—which was why Fury thought I’d be the only one able to handle it, jokes on him.”  

Tony warily eyed him but nodded, taking in the new intel. “Fury gave you the mission?” 

“Yeah.” A blink. 

A frown. “Personally?” 

Stiles stared at him with barely hidden judgement in his eyes, “Is there something you’d like to say?”

“No, nothing.” Tony met his stare with an equally unphased one of his own. “As long as you understand.” 

Both of them kept up their show of hand until Stiles looked away first. 

“Well, it’s that or my stunning luck, let’s leave it there.” Stiles busied himself with bandaging his newly disinfected wound, making sure to keep a tight compression as he wrapped the bandage around his torso, once, twice and thrice. 

The people’s beloved hero was suspiciously quiet throughout this entire procedure. Stiles didn’t inquire into it, and Tony wasn’t expecting him to. But the tension was still there. 

Something’s gotta give. 

“Fine.” Stiles clipped the end of the bandage in place and threw the rest to the bed. He grabbed his duffel bag, rummaged it for something and tossed it straight at the superhero. “Here.” 

Tony caught the incoming projectile at him with surprising practiced ease, failing to contain his small pride of victory at phasing the man. He turned the black cube in his hands, inspecting the object with a newfound curiosity. “What’s this?” 

“I don’t know.” The younger moved around the room to collect his discarded medical supplies. “That’s what I need you to figure out.” 

There was a few seconds that went by undisturbed, until Tony finally caught on to what Stiles was implying. “Wait, are you saying this is--”

“The object inside the cursed case your father built?” Stiles took the words right out of his mouth, as he threw his collected trash in the bin. “Yes.” 

Tony looked at the object with marvel. “You’re just giving it to me like this, no fuss, no fight, no mind games and mess?” 

“For safekeeping.” Stiles nodded.

“After all that paranoia?” 

“The reason they’re hunting me down so desperately is because of that object.” Stiles slid the duffel bag under the bed to keep it out of the way. “I’m good, but even I’m not sure how long I can outrun an entire organization full of agents trained in the same art I was, especially if they sicced Level 6 agents on me.” 

He sat back down on the bed with just a slight hint of exhaustion.

“If I get caught, I’d be damned if I let them get their hands on it.” Running his hands across the comforter, Stiles smoothed down the wrinkles on the fabric. “You’re my best bet at keeping that thing safe. Besides, I’m no tech expert, so it's useless in my hands. At least this way, you can get answers I never can and figure out what the hell makes that damn box so fucking important that I lost everything to protect it.” 

When Tony met Stiles for the first time, he thought the young man was reckless. What else would he think? Breaking into Stark Industries was a reckless move especially for someone on a fugitive list of the most elusive clandestine agency in the world. But he thought to partner up with him despite the odds, because Tony didn’t know who else would jump into this derailed trainwreck of investigating SHIELD with him. Even if his partner was a reckless mess that was driven by emotions. 

But this made it clear—Stiles wasn’t just emotional, he was smart about it. He wasn’t on a rampant search for revenge, he was on a calculated warpath. He had contingencies, and more importantly, he knew he could fail. 

The most important thing to have in their trade is the knowledge that you may fail. Anyone who’s not afraid of a sword, does not deserve to be in the battlefield. Anyone who knows not of loss, does not deserve victory. 

“What are you planning to do now?” Tony asked with a hint of caution. 

Stiles picked up on it but didn’t bother to address it. “I’m gonna pull on loose-ends and see what they unravel.”

Rolling his eyes, the man of iron leaned forward with a tested expression, “Mind explaining on that, or would you rather stay cryptic?” 

For a moment, Stiles simply pulled out his gun and settled it in his lap, all the while keeping his gaze on the superhero. Tony froze for half a second before he realized the man was pulling his leg. The older man raised an unimpressed eyebrow, and Stiles scoffed. 

“By now, we’ve established that SHIELD is compromised. I don’t suppose we can do anything about that part until we have further intel. What I don’t get is what the CIA has to do with all of this.” Stiles disassembled his gun that he pulled out, cleaning out the components. “They were working together, or at least they were until Ward and Ryder double-crossed them and killed them point blank. That means, despite the double-crossing, they were after the same thing. I’m going to see if I can poke the bear and get some answers.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Tony played it around in his head. “They tend to be very sensitive about people poking their bear-behinds.” 

It was Stiles’ turn to raise an unimpressed brow at the ill-fated pun. “The CIA has no jurisdiction in the US.” His hands moved at an automatic muscle memory. “They have to use miscellaneous and clandestine methods to do their biddings around here—which makes my job a whole lot easier. They’re not supposed to be involved in the first place, and they know it. They won’t risk causing a scene when they’ve got their hands caught in the cookie jar.” 

Still sceptical, Tony crossed his arms. “You know they’ll deny everything, right?” 

“They can try.” Stiles hummed, nonchalantly. “But I have proof.”

“You do? How?” 

“You do know who I am, don’t you?” Stiles tilted his head to the side, scrutiny in his eyes at the nerve of the man’s need to question him. “How do you think I got my position? Despite what happened, I’m always careful. I don’t go shaking hands without a fail-safe.” Stiles clicked the last component of his gun in place, and wore his best business smile as he did so—slightly threatening but all the more charming. “Every co-op I’ve ever had with less-than-savory partners, I make sure to keep their dirty laundry to air out if it gets down to it.”

Tony raised an impressed brow, taken aback at how unexpectedly cunning his newfound partner was. “Well, maybe you’re not just a pretty face after all.” He looked around the room but paused, the words finally settling. “Wait.” 

Looking back at the fugitive, Tony narrowed his eyes. “Does that mean you have something on me?” 

The smirk he got in reply was nothing short of concerning, and did absolutely nothing to help him. 

***

Contacting the CIA is a lot easier than most people would think. Especially if you were already on their radar, and Stiles is definitely up high on theirs right about now. So all you really need to do is get their attention. 

This can be done through several ways, but they’ve always been notoriously discreet and bounded by billions of red tape so you have to be equally as careful and persistent. In their line of business, there are certain names that pop out more than others for various reasons, but this makes them known and easily spotted. 

Stiles happens to know one name. A rather famous one actually, not just in their line of work but also in the general public. They’re exceptionally good at keeping a facade, living a double life and keeping everything separate from each other. Which was probably why his connection and position in the CIA has been a well-guarded secret. 

With his hoodie off, he walked into the building of his destination and reached the reception desk. Stiles smiled at the lady and hitched his bag higher up his shoulder, looking every bit as unprofessional as she saw him. 

“Hey, I’m here to see Mr. Whittham.”

The receptionist behind the desk took a look at him and had the tiniest frown line between her eyebrows, as to be expected with his less than formal way of addressing her employer.  “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but tell him Stilinski is here to see him.” He started tapping the countertop to raise her hackles, acting cocky. 

The receptionist—Linda, if her name tag was anything to go by—was struggling to keep her business smile for him. But Stiles was still as calm as a cucumber. “I’m sorry sir, but you can’t meet with him unless you have an appointment.” 

Taking a step forward, Stiles leaned against the counter and smiled as politely as she did. “I’m sure you’re excellent at your job, so I don’t want anything bad to happen to you once the top brass finds out that you sent away an honoured guest of his. It’ll take less than a minute to phone up and find out whether or not I’m telling the truth.”  He flashed his teeth at her as his smile grew wider and his eyes grew slanter. “So I highly suggest you do that.” 

Linda had her hand half-way to the button to call for security, but something about the glint in this rude stranger’s eyes froze her in place. Something about the way he carries himself tells her that he’s dangerous, that he would get his way no matter what she does. 

So she took a deep breath, and picked the phone up for a direct line upstairs. “Hi, yes, I’ve got a Mr. Stilinski here to see—” her eyes widened and she sneaked a look to the enticing stranger “—oh yes, yes, I’ll send him up right away, sorry for the trouble.” 

Stiles spared her the guilt by slapping his hand on the counter softly, and flashing a brighter grin. “Thankyou for the help. I’ll let myself up.” 

Stunned, Linda took a moment before coming back to her senses and calling out the floor number to him, “It’s the 8th floor!”

The only thing Stiles did to reply was to send a wave of a hand thrown carelessly over his shoulder. He got into an elevator and rode his way up, checking his watch for the time as he did. 

Once the doors opened on the right floor, Stiles strode onwards with little to no regard to his surroundings, power walking his way to the grand doors and ignoring the call of the secretary as he pushed the doors open without even so much as a knock. 

The man behind the desk was in deep-thought, when the door opened. He looked up to see a face he hasn’t seen in quite a while, and instantly a frown laced his features.  

Stiles scoffed a smirk, inviting himself in to sit at the plush chair opposite the desk, dumping his bag on the chair beside it. He settled in with a greeting, “Senator.” 

Senator Alec Whittham. Renowned by his peers, loved by the citizens and a prominent member of the CIA working under the shadows. He’s got the best of both worlds, really. The man was definitely powerful, you can give him that. But he’s got a nasty side darker than Hannibal Lecter. 

He was an A star douchebag, which you had to be to authorize CIA operations within the United States. His position gains him easy access to blind out the records and have an eye out for everything that happens in the senate and political balance. Alec Whittham was one of the best sharks Stiles had ever known. 

So of course, they’ve butted heads more times than they’ve made nice. Because Stiles was just as much of a shark as he was. 

“Agent Stilinski, you have no manners as usual.” Alec took off his reading glasses and leaned back into his own desk chair. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

Stiles copied his posture. “You know why I’m here, let’s not play that game and waste everyone’s time.”

“Do I?” The senator kept a poker face. 

“Surprising right?” Stiles threw back every inch of confidence the senator was throwing at him. “I would’ve expected you lot to learn your lesson the last time we ever collaborated on an op.” 

The man tilted his head to the side. “I’m not sure I’m following—the US senate has never worked with the likes of you before.” 

“Mmm.” Stiles nodded, entertaining the man before leaning forward to rest his hands on the table. “But you keep forgetting something.” 

Alec raised his eyebrows, believing he still had the upper hand. He really should learn to do his homework on other people.

“I know about Baghdad.” 

The facade of calm and strength Senator Alec Whittham had retained fell away with the words Stiles dropped, and the overwhelming turn of tables was heavy in the atmosphere. 

He’s been holding this card in his pocket for a long time. Stiles could as easily be incriminated by what happened in Baghdad as much as Alec, but the senator certainly had a lot more to lose than he did. And the man knows it. 

Especially now that Stiles doesn’t have anything else to lose. 

“I was there after all, and you know me Alec, I always keep records. There’s nothing stopping me from releasing that.” Stiles slid his finger across the man’s official desk name plate before picking up an ornament chess piece the senator had decorated his table with. “So if you don’t want the truth getting out, you’re going to tell me everything you know.” 

“Do you seriously think you can threaten me?” The government official glared at his rude guest, knowing that he was in a pinch. “I am a senator of the United States’ congress.” 

“I don’t need to do anything if the knife’s already against your throat.”  

Alec gripped the arms of his seat tightly, restraining himself from grabbing the gun under his desk to do something irrational and let his rage take over him. But Stiles Stilinski wasn’t a man you can just kill--he needed to be erased from the world with extraordinary measures. And that takes planning. 

So he swallowed his pride and kept silent. 

Stiles could see the moment the senator made his decision. “I’m sure you’re a busy man. So, you have until the end of today.” He grabbed his bag from the next seat over and hitched it back on his shoulder, “Or tomorrow you’re going to be the breaking news of every major media outlet across the world.”

He got up from his seat loudly on purpose, pushing the chair back with force. Stiles did a mock bow to the man before stopping at the door. 

“Do choose wisely, Senator.” He had a faux pity in his voice that he knew irritated the man to no end. “I voted for you, so I’d hate to see you go.” 

Leaving the building was surprisingly an easy feat, Stiles wouldn’t put it past the senator to sabotage the elevator and trap him there. Well, even if he did, it would serve to his purpose so he didn’t mind. 

For now he had to wait, hopefully not long. So he strolled out into the streets and walked without aim. After a few blocks he got his answer and changed his direction towards a secluded area. 

As he rounded the corner he slipped into a carpark basement, Stiles took note of his surroundings, the open pillars, the sparse cars and the faded darkness of the dingy place. 

There was a crumpled can by his feet, he bent to take it. When he got back up, he was surrounded by five men on all sides. 

“Took you guys long enough.” Stiles huffed, blowing a breath of air upwards to his bangs. “Was starting to wonder if I didn’t come knocking hard enough.” 

The five men were dressed in combat dark-uniforms, no insignia of loyalty to an organization. But they weren’t fooling him, he knew where they came from. Oh Alec, this was so routine. Seriously, he should try and make this harder for him—it’s too easy, it’s starting to become a joke. 

“Let me guess, you here to take me in? Alive, because I wouldn’t be much use dead.” Stiles zipped his hoodie off and threw it to the side, cracking his knuckles and stretching to warm-up. “Whisk me off to be tortured in a blacksite facility you’re not supposed to own, but operate anyways?”

He stopped his actions and took his stance. “Won’t be that easy.”

Because the CIA weren’t known for their manners, all five of them jumped him at the same time. Stiles made a note at the back of his mind that they were all high-level combat agents, probably an assassination unit from a blackbook budget somewhere. So, this assured his assumptions that this was indeed important for the CIA. 

Makes him wonder what the hell he’s gotten himself into. 

Without breaking a sweat, Stiles lunged to the ground and into a forward roll, avoiding all five of the incoming targets and kicked his leg out to knock the one nearest him off the ground. Coming to a stop, he skidded across the pavement on his knees and punched one of the other guys in the knee.

The trick to fighting is actually easy: know your advantage. This is especially important in a fight where you find yourself outnumbered. Always try and get the upper hand, even if it means going low. Vantage points are his best advantage in fighting groups, so he’s going to fight this as close to the ground as possible. 

Stiles kept his body lowered to the pavement as much as possible and used his agile knees to his advantage. He rounded a kick parallel to the ground and took two guys on his right off balance, before charging with his whole body to the guy in front of him--shoulder-checking the opponent’s stomach as he took them to the ground. 

Don’t worry about finishing them off, all you need to do to ensure a win in an outnumbered fight is take them out of commission--even just for a little bit--one at a time. Easiest way to do this is to knock their centre of gravity off, and give them a concussion of a fall. 

He didn’t waste time to tuck his body into another roll, getting up and off the body he knocked down and onto his foot. By the time the first guy he knocked off was back on his feet and lunging at him, Stiles had already sucker-punched him across the gut and double-crossed with one across his jaw. One down.

Establish an order, and follow it. If you’ve managed to do that, well then, you’ve got it under control. 

The second one was limping by his knees, and decided to use his body weight as a weapon as he moved to body-check him. Stiles simply turned on his foot and nailed the guy on his spine with the bottom of his fist, then using his knee to brutally impact the side of his stomach as he went down. That’s two. 

As he turned his attention to his back, two guys were on him and caught his arm at the elbow whilst the other was aiming a straight punch for his face. Two-teaming him was definitely a good strategy, these guys were smart all right. It would’ve worked. But he’s been through this a million times. 

Stiles forced his arm upwards and grabbed the guy on his back by the neck, as soon as he did he switched his center of gravity and threw the guy over his back as he bent forwards. The momentum from the flip crashed his captor to the other opponent on his front and sent them both tumbling to the ground in a painful twist.

He huffed a breath and recentered his gravity. Three and four. 

Blinking, Stiles heard the slightest movement behind him and ducked to the side as he avoided a punch straight for his head. He drove his elbow back into the guy’s liver. As the man doubled back in pain, Stiles took a step back before launching forwards in a round-house kick, his feet catching the guy on the face and forcing him to the ground as his skull impacted the concrete with a resounding thump. 

And five. Stiles took a deep breath and settled his adrenaline, his blood rushing in his ears. The silence returned to the empty car park, with five new unconscious bodies on the ground. You might think that he’d made a mistake by knocking all of them unconscious, after taking such measures to lure them in, but he knew better. 

Assassins, not as much as agents, are a pain in the ass because of one thing, discounting their deadly factor: they are trained to be dispensable. They were trained to die before revealing information. So that was a dead-end on their part. 

And he knew Alec wouldn’t budge a single bit, because this whole thing they were involved with was just as equally—if not more—incriminating than Baghdad.

So why bother luring them out? 

Simple. Assassins are chess-pieces, and every chess piece has an owner. They might not advertise it on their clothes or their allegiance, but they have incriminating ties on everything else. 

Alec may have been the one to authorise ops within America, but he doesn’t oversee every one of them personally—that would be impossible to do with his workload as senator. He’s the director of a bunch of managers, each one overseeing a different op, who all report back to him. 

Finding these ‘managers’ are nearly impossible, because of the tight security of command. But it’s always easier connecting the dots from the bottom ladder up, which meant the foot-soldiers.  

This was what he was aiming for. 

Stiles rummaged through one of the assassin’s clothing, stripping behind each padding and patting down their limbs. When he said incriminating ties, it’s technology mostly: their gun models, their comms and—Stiles stopped his hands as he came across a bump under the skin at the back of the elbow, smirking—their trackers.

Fishing his pocket knife, he made a clean incision to dig the tracker out of the skin, wiping the blood off with the ripped clothing. 

CIA were very particular about their assassins, because about 50% of them go rogue—no wonder why with their barbarian techniques and throwing almost everyone under the bus for their benefit—and so they took extraordinary measures. 

Before this, he wasn’t sure about whether the tracker was actually a thing they implemented, it was all just his speculation. but thank god he was right. If there was one thing he could count on, it was the bad tendencies of even worse people.

If he was in a better state of mind, he would’ve thought it was sad. Stiles rolled the tracker against his pointer finger and thumb, looking at the guy he just pulled it out of. 

But he wasn’t, and he was fresh out of fucks to give. 

Stiles flipped the tracker in the air and caught it with a swipe of his hands, tucking it in his pocket. He stood up to pick his hoodie off the ground, dust it off and shrugged it back on along with the hood before strolling out into the streets with a new intel in hand.

***

“Hey.” 

There was a crackle over the line before he got a response. 

“Where did you get my phone number?” Tony blinked at the voice, taking his phone away from his face to check the number and then placing it back against his ears. 

Stiles rolled his eyes, “Don’t underestimate me. I need you to do something.” 

“Aw, did the nice office-men at the agency give you the shoulder?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice.

Gathering his patience once more, Stiles simply ignored the quip. “I need you to track a signal for me.”

There was a clear line in the conversation when the mood instantly switched from laid-back to professional. Tony sat straighter on his chair in his lab. “Tracing a signal? Can’t you do that pretty easily?” 

“Yeah, but I’m short of time.” Stiles tugged his hoodie over his head, shadowing his face. 

Back in his lab, Tony was already on one of his desktop, his hands moving on the keyboard with the goal in mind. “How do you expect me to track a signal if I don’t have access to whatever device you’ve acquired?”

Scoffing at the poor-attempt of a lie, Stiles steered himself to a corner shop. “There’s a reason why I haven’t thrown out your bug.” He flicked at the bulge behind his belt strap. “You’ve probably already scanned and locked onto the signal by now.” 

Tony’s fingers paused on the keys, he looked back and around him just to make sure Stiles hadn't magically transported to his lab. Because he was absolutely right, his bug that he planted picked up the signal transmitted by the tracker Stiles acquired and was now running a search-trace. 

He had to hide back a click in his tongue, but he couldn’t resist the smirk that pulled at his lips and into his tone. “Well, you’re very welcome. See, I’m a very handy partner to have.” 

“Just run the trace.” Stiles busied himself with purchasing a disposable camera and phone whilst inside the shop, heading towards the counter to pay in cash. Corner shops never had high security or even cameras for that matter of fact, so thank god for the owner’s cheap tendencies. 

Having placed the bug on Stiles, Tony knew where he was at all times and what his movements were so he could guess what the signal he was tracking was for. It was a throw of the dice, placing that tracker—because Tony was still sceptical about the man and he always liked to know the most out of a situation, but he knew spying on him could also break their alliance. 

But, since the fugitive didn’t seem to mind, Tony threw away all his pretext and settled for the peace. “Is it safe for you to be parading around so openly?” 

Because technically that’s what he was doing. He wasn’t even trying to hide, strolling around on a main street and buying things off corner shops, his face not hidden by any covering besides his loose hoodie.

Stiles gave a small smile to the man who rang up his purchase, before speaking into his bluetooth earpiece. “On the contrary, the safest place for me is out in the open.” 

“Run that by me again?” Tony frowned. 

“SHIELD wants to keep this on the down-low as much as possible, so they won’t attack me head-on.” He ducked out of the shop and walked a short distance to a public toilet. “Because all of this is off-the-books, this situation is unprecedented. They want to avoid panic, blame and an all-out power-struggle. That’s the only reason they haven’t notified the local authorities to help with my manhunt.”  

Stiles went into a stall and closed the door. Flipping the lid on the toilet seat, he pulled his purchase out from the carrier bag and got to work. He was finished with everything he needed to do well under a minute. “Considering the CIA tried to bag me a couple minutes ago, I’m sure they’d like to keep it that way as well.” 

“Just don’t end up in a ditch somewhere, you’d be no use as a partner to me if you’re dead.” There was a digital notification that sounded from Tony’s end of the line, signalling a complete trace. “Found what you’re looking for, I’ll send you the intel now.” 

The phone on his back-pocket vibrated with the incoming message. Stiles fished it out and memorized the address before slipping it back. “Got it.”

“Well, whatever you’re planning to do—” Tony swivelled back in his chair, playing with the cube of mystery he was still trying to figure out “—good luck.”

Flushing all evidence down the toilet, Stiles walked out the stall and stared down his predatory reflection at the mirror. 

“I don’t need luck.” 

***

Clint Barton had a lot of doubts, about a lot of things. 

First off, he doesn’t believe anything that’s happening. He knew Stiles, he mentored him when the young agent took over their Delta squad. In a way, as much as Stiles was Fury’s protege, he was his too. 

So he knew, this was not possible. Even when all the evidence points towards him as a sole culprit, with eye-witness testimony from two of their own agents, he can’t bring himself to even entertain the idea that Stiles has gone rogue. 

Not that he wasn’t capable of it—Agent Stiles Stilinski was a man to be feared. Half the reason why Clint picked him as his successor was because of the very fact that the man was cunningly dangerous and viciously charming to throw anyone off their feet. Stiles could very well go rogue, and he’d give the entire world for a run. 

But it’s the other half of that reasoning that matters. His humane half. As merciless as Stiles could be, he was never without compassion. Stiles Stilinski was a human before he was an agent—and that was the most important distinction that did it for Clint. Because he and Natasha lost that distinction for years until they regained it when they formed the Avengers. 

Stiles would never kill his team. He would rather cut off all his limbs than let that happen. And he would not, in any circumstances, kill Derek Hale. They were partners, in work, in life, in love, in everything. Clint would even go so far as to say that they were soulmates. 

He knew that Stiles couldn’t have possibly done this. 

So then his doubts began, and with it a snowball became an avalanche. 

After he’d gotten over the initial shock, he started investigating. Clint didn’t know about Natasha’s perspective on this, but he knew that nobody would believe him—hinder him, even—so he went off to do his own digging.

Everyone was so caught up in the heat of the moment that they’re just focusing on catching Stiles, and paying no attention to everything else. So, Clint considered everything and relied on deduction and logic. 

His first thought was this: even if Stiles didn’t do it, the fact that it happened is undeniable. So he started gathering evidence about what even was happening.

He acquired the mission file, which was troublingly hard to get since it was filed as a Level 10 clearance. This alone had propped up a bunch of red flags, because even if the Delta Team was a specialized exception, they rarely got Level 10 clearance missions mainly because no one has level 10 clearance. 

He doesn’t even have Level 10 clearance, not even Captain America has Level 10 clearance. Level 10 clearance was exclusive for board of directors, and missions filed under those are executed rigorously through backchannels and more backchannels of teams for many reasons including confidentiality and staying under the radar. 

If you want something done confidentially, you don’t assign the most famous, or even infamous, STRIKE team known to SHIELD history. Because with that fame comes a spotlight no matter how hard you hide it. 

But Clint Barton was a master at vantage points and blindspots, so getting the file was the easiest step in this process. The inside was much more troubling. 

There was no information, this was a blind mission. From what he’d seen in security footage tracking Stiles’ movements the day of the mission, he knows that Stiles was assigned this op on the day it was due. 

Clint knew Stiles wouldn’t possibly take a mission like this, with such short notice especially when going in blind. But he was in and out of Fury’s office within the span of less than 5 minutes. 5 minutes is not a lot of time, but it does say a lot. It says that even with all the risks, Stiles took this mission so easily and there’s only one reason he would do that: Fury. 

Director Fury was Stiles’ mentor and father figure. The young agent respected the man with every bone in his body, even if he did express it with the elegance of a rebellious teenager. This was the man who convinced Stiles to kill for him; to live as a glorified weapon and soldier under his orders; to strangle his own morality to the borderline and still continue to dirty his hands despite it. Clint knew there was a reason behind the level of dedication, but he just couldn’t get Stiles to tell him about it. 

So, Fury must’ve asked him to do this—and genuinely. And when he brought that piece of the puzzle in, he realized that Fury knew more than he was letting on. Not that that’s out of character, the man was built on secrets, but this time it was more than just secrets. 

Clint has the slightest suspicion that Fury has a role to play in this whole case. But Fury favoured Stiles more than he did Agent Hill, he wouldn't have given them the case if he knew this would happen. So he filed it to the back of his brain and moved on with things he could get an answer on. 

Which was the timeline of what happened. And that was about the only information that he knew was a fact:

Stiles got the mission from Fury. The mission was a simple extraction, to retrieve something that has been stolen en route. A couple hours later STRIKE Team Delta met up with Agent Ward and Ryder and four other CIA operatives. The op was carried out. The STRIKE team ended up dead along with the CIA agents and their targets, leaving a heavily injured Agent Ryder and a banged up Agent Ward. Then, Stiles goes missing. 

No one can deny these 6 facts. There was a period of time that he couldn’t find conclusive evidence of what happened within it, and that was the time the operation was carried out. There was Agent Ward’s testimony, and that was the linchpin holding up Stiles’ warrant for arrest. 

Clint Barton didn’t trust Agent Ward’s testimony for shit. Agent Stilinski and Ward were never on good terms, and Clint never had much trust in humanity to say that Ward wouldn’t sabotage him if he had the chance. 

But he couldn’t prove anything. And that was his next move.

Evidence. It was alarmingly quick how Agent Stiles Stilinski was branded as a traitor, especially for such a high level agent. There normally would’ve been a lot more evidence gathering, but for some reason, the conclusion was reached in under a day and filed away as a fact just like that. 

That verdict lies on two things: direct testimony from Agent Ward and circumstantial evidence. The circumstantial evidence comes in the form of a ballistics report, matching the bullets and gun model used to kill all agents on scene with the one Stiles was known for using. 

Stiles was exclusively known for his gun style, he was after all the second best marksman SHIELD had after Clint himself. Natasha would fall just a little short under him, then Agent Hill, then Fury. 

Why would he, a known marksman, use his own famous weapon and rat himself out if he were to plan a betrayal?  

This whole thing just reeks of sloppiness, which was not in Stiles’ repertoire of skills. And this wasn’t his style. If Stiles really wanted to betray them, he’d do it in a way no one would ever see coming. 

That brought him to where he was now, breaking into their evidence unit to run his own ballistics test. The results stayed the same--the bullets matched the gun model that Stiles used. There was no denying that, and this made a pretty solid case, even he would admit it. 

But. Stiles was much more careful than that. 

Clint fished the bullet out again and placed it under the microscope, before looking at it closely, turning the bullet every which way to inspect it. That’s when he saw it. 

Or more specifically, didn’t see. 

Stiles had a quirk. He knows his reputation, and he knows the risk that comes with it. To set up a safeguard, he decided to leave a bit of himself in every op, kill, or mission he took. This was a double-edged sword. Because yes, it is vitally incriminating but also it gives him the perfect defense for when someone tries to set him up. 

He can own up to the things he did—he’s not blind about how easily swayed their moral conscience can be. They were soldiers, Stiles understood that perfectly. So if worse comes to worse, he’d be held accountable for the things he did do and that was fair. 

For obvious reasons, not many people knew he did this. Stiles was very secretive about this safeguard he had, and Clint was one of the three people he’s told.

The signature he left was in the bullets he shot. The gun that he used, although attainable with the right resources, was special. Because it was faulty. 

There was a scratch in the inner linings of the gun’s barrel—so that when a bullet passes through it in firing, the bullet gets the tiniest hairline jagged lightning bolt scratch. 

This one Clint was inspecting did not have Stiles’ signature scratch. Although it matched his gun, and the gun was registered under Stiles’ name, Clint would bet that this was his back-up gun he kept. And this back-up gun was easily acquired with the right access codes. 

No one would bring a back-up gun of the same model, because that destroys the purpose of having a back-up.

Now he had clear evidence that Stiles did not do this. But it was evidence he couldn’t prove without telling Stiles’ secret signature that he specifically kept hidden. Until Stiles came back to reveal it himself, Clint had his hands tied. 

The archer sighed and leaned back against the chair he was on, rubbing his eyes from the intense activity of checking each bullet. Except for giving him clarity, this didn’t help him progress at all. It doesn’t explain any of the other questions and red flags that this whole thing was shrewd under. 

So yes, Clint Barton had a fuck tonne of doubts about possibly everything at this point. And he was no closer to figuring what the hell was going on. 

He’s just praying on false gods that he’d figure it out before this all goes to a point of no return. 

*** 

The trace address led him to a 3rd floor apartment above a record shop. On the stairway up, he spotted half a dozen cameras leading up to the apartment but Stiles wasn’t all that bothered by it. 

They wouldn’t run, they won’t risk it. Why would they? They should know by now that catching him was harder than they thought, so him knocking on their doors voluntarily was probably the best chance they have. 

So, Stiles leisurely walked his way down the corridor and stopped in front of the door. He waited a second to see if anything would happen, but decided to take his gun out and fuck it all. 

Shooting the door lock, Stiles kicked it wide open with brute force. The scene that met him was less than he expected—the apartment was stripped bare, the dividers all gone and instead opened up to a makeshift command centre, with desks conjoined together around a huge monitor propped up in the middle. There weren’t that many people, he counted about 6 upon entering, but he could definitely tell who was in charge. 

“Heard you were looking for me?” Stiles walked into the stunned room, no one dared to move against him at that very moment. He figured these were not combat agents, or at least not good ones, they were office agents by the looks of it. “I’m not going to kill you, if that’s what you’re all thinking.”

He ignored most of the footsoldiers and continued his path onto the agent in charge, sitting on top of a desk by the glass window with the curtains pulled. The agent was a woman, sleek in a navy suit, her arms and legs crossed as if she’d been sitting there waiting for him. 

“I could but, I’d rather not.” Stiles continued, spinning his gun around his finger by the trigger handle before throwing it up in the air. 

The gun spun in mid-air, catching the center of attention while Stiles did a quick recon of the room layout, weapon placements and exit-strategies. He caught the gun back within seconds. “Let’s get down to the chase, shall we? You’ve sent your men after me, which means there’s something I have that you want.” 

This is where he drew the bait. In interrogation with people who could keep a secret within an inch of their life or lie like a shark at a poker night, the best way is through trickery. They won’t give you an answer with a forward question, so all you need to do to get the truth is to roll the dice and see if they’ll bite.

“All I want in return is intel.” Stiles finished off his proposition, a smirk well-painted on his face. 

The woman uncrossed her arms and settled them on the edge of the table she sat upon. “Assuming what you say is true, what kind of intel are you looking for?” 

The CIA has no qualms with him personally, so they were his best bet at answers. They wouldn’t mind giving away information if it doesn’t harm them personally and SHIELD was always a thorn in their side. It’s a win-win. 

“Everything you have on SHIELD.” Stiles waved his finger in the air. “Including their involvement in this mess.” 

She pinned him with a look that gave away nothing in her expression, but less than a minute later she agreed. “I need to see if you have it first.” 

Stiles blinked. Here goes nothing. 

“I guess that’s fair.” He dropped his bag from his shoulder and zipped it open, his hand reaching in and pulling out—

“This is what you wanted, right?” 

—a film reel. 

There was silence that drowned the room, where nobody moved or spoke a single word. Stiles watched her reactions like a hawk, as subtle as he could. Of course, this could be a potentially dumb plan, since he was holding a film reel that he pulled out of a $4 disposable camera he’d just bought, but if it worked then—

“Alright, you have a deal.” 

—then he’d have all the confirmation he needed. This proved it. The CIA had no fucking clue what was in that briefcase, probably had less of a clue than he did. But even with little to no information, they still put high stakes upon making sure they get their hands on it. 

Tony Stark better protect that fucking cube with his life. 

“Now what is so important in this tiny little thing that would get everyone’s panties in a twist?” Stiles played with the film in his hands, turning it around to catch the light. “I think I deserve to know, considering you’ve painted me as your scapegoat.” 

The woman raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s a matter of national security.” 

Scoffing, Stiles walked forwards to put the film reel on top of a CPU, making sure his movements seemed careless instead of thought-out. “I’ve heard that line before.” He stopped in his steps. “But if that’s true, then this is more NSA’s jurisdiction isn’t it? Or the FBI’s maybe, but definitely not yours.”

There was a twitch in her eyebrow that tells him he’s hit a nerve. 

“I have some contacts who would be very interested to know where your goons have been loitering around lately.” Stiles pointedly looked around the room as he gave a slight shrug. “Who knows? Maybe your answer will be enough to shut my loose-lips.” 

Here it was, Stiles could tell that she was going to bite and tell him. He’s always gotten his way no matter what happened—and he’s not going to stop now. The agent gave out a soft sigh and nodded to one of her subordinates, the subordinate in question immediately started to type furiously into his keyboard. 

She looked back at him slowly. “All we know is that this came up on our radar, from one of our assets that went dark. The last we heard from him was a message saying that this should never get out and fall into the wrong hands, or else the consequences will be catastrophic.” 

Catastrophic. That was a word you don’t hear very often, and Stiles acknowledged it. There were only a few scenarios he could think of that warrants the use of those words, and none of them were good. 

“Why is SHIELD involved in this then?” Stiles asked. 

The woman straightened her posture. “Everything you want to know will be on the files we’re handing over to you, but they reached out to us first.” 

Wait, what? Stiles blinked at the woman in confusion. SHIELD was the first to reach out? That was—odd. “Do you remember the agent that reached out to you?” 

“Of course I do.” The woman stood up from her desk. “It was—”

She couldn’t finish her answer, unfortunately, because the second her mouth opened, the rest of her head did too. 

The loud resounding sound of the glass breaking along with her head cracking open by a long heavy bullet was followed by the startled screaming of her subordinates, as her body fell to the ground. 

Stiles stood there, his jaw dropping and his eyes widening. What the fuck just happened? He stood there looking at the carnage and he felt the burning rage in his gut firing up. 

Before he could do anything, another scream erupted from the other side of the room, along with the windows breaking and bodies falling down. Fuck.

“Sniper!” He shouted as he ran for cover. Out of the six officers he counted, 4 of them were now dead on the ground along with their superior.

The bullets were now missing their targets since everyone ran for cover under their desks, and for a moment complete silence could be heard. Stiles was absolutely sure this wasn’t the end of it, but some of the officers were starting to move. 

“Stay down!” 

But it was too late, the sniper had already spotted their movement. However, instead of sniping them one by one, the next incoming that came wasn’t a bullet—it was something longer and fuller than a bullet. 

It was beeping with a red light. 

You can’t fire grenade shots with a sniper rifle, Stiles thought rationally as he stared at the weird weapon 6 feet away from him. The grenade would implode by the firing mechanism of a rifle. But—a smoke bomb could definitely be modified to fit into a rifle. 

After all, he’s used one before. 

The moment it clicked, the beeping stopped and gas started pouring out furiously from the little device and filled up the room rapidly. Stiles used his feet to kick back from the desk he was hiding behind to slide towards the door, making sure to stay close to the ground.

But the gas wasn’t just smoke, it was also toxic judging by how his eyes started to itch and his throat burning. 

Fuck. He’s gotta get out of here. Thinking quickly, Stiles aimed his gun towards the ceiling, roughly around the spot he remembered seeing a sprinkler and pulled his trigger. His lucky shot brought down a rain of water on the room as the alarms blared and the sprinkler shot to action. 

With the water fighting the gas, he took it his chance and ran. 

*** 

Stiles kept running and running, torturing his lungs to breath in more oxygen to flush away the toxins working in his body. He stopped after a couple blocks once he’s deemed himself to be far enough from the scene of the crime. 

He bent over his knee and took a short break in an alley-way.

They were being watched. The CIA team that was overseeing the godforsaken mission he partook in--they were being watched. They didn’t know anything about this whole thing, and yet they were still being watched so that they could be disposed of once something went wrong. 

Stiles was what had gone wrong. They only started attacking when he had ventured close enough to the windows--so he might’ve been the target as well. 

And now he was walking away with no intel, no leads and the only person who was willing to give him an answer, dead. Not to mention one hell of a fuck-up job to his lungs. 

“Fuck!” He wheezed. 

Stiles closed his eyes as he leaned against the brick wall in the alley, taking deep breaths to calm his haphazard coughing. This is not over. 

This isn’t ideal, but he’s still got a few tricks up his sleeves.

This will work. It has to work. 

For Scott. 

For Allison. 

For Lydia. 

For Derek. 

He will make this work. 

A footstep echoed in the long back alley, loud and clear like the sound of bells. The sun had started to set on the city, casting shadows and painting gloom all over. It was suitable really, matched the mood perfectly well. 

Signalled the end of a bright day, and calling the uncertain darkness of a long-winding night. 

Which was exactly what happened. 

The footsteps stopped and Stiles didn't even have to turn his face to know who was standing there with him. Sooner or later, they were bound to meet. 

“Really, sending someone like you after little old me?” Stiles made sure his voice was as unguarded as it can get, lofty and airy. “This is starting to feel a bit personal.”

For a second, there was a silence that was heavy with assumptions made on both ends. But his new guest decided to respond to his quip. 

“Don’t sell yourself short, Stilinski.” The man started off with a matched lightness in his voice. “We’ve all heard things about you, what you’re capable of.” 

Stiles chuckled, wiping his hands down the side of his pants. “Good things, I hope.” 

The joke was hanged and dry, and at this moment in time both of them knew they’re going in circles and couldn’t psyche the other out any longer. Stiles wasn’t going to make the first move, he didn’t want to either. Because he knew Captain Steve Rogers and he knew he didn’t need to.

“Agent Stilinski, stand down.” Captain America flashed his shield, his voice the perfect tone for a bleeding-hearted superhero. “No one has to get hurt.” 

There he was, the nation's heartthrob in a red, white and blue glorified-spandex. What a picture. He used to appreciate it, back when he worked alongside him on the same side. But now that they were at opposite ends, now that it was directed at him—it makes him want to hurl. 

“Captain.” Stiles dropped off all pretenses of joking, his face turning steel with the coldness in his eyes. “I think it’s a little too late for that, don’t you think?”

None of them would back down, and they knew how this pleasant exchange was going to end up in anyways. And none of them were looking forward to it. 

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.” Steve’s voice went down into a lower register, a hint of a threat shining through his blue eyes even in the dark. “It’s your choice.”

The captain was clearly giving him an easy way out—and if this was about anything else, Stiles would’ve taken it. He knows SHIELD is compromised, but he doesn’t believe that Cap is in on it. He’s always been a soldier with a heart, even though he literally was a poster boy he still had his own morals. 

But this wasn’t about anything else. This was about everything. 

“I’m good thanks,” Stiles decided. 

Steve sighed downwards into his chest before picking his head back up and tilting his chin higher, getting himself ready. Because he’s not afraid to admit that this was going to be a hell of a fight. 

“Do you really think you can take me down?” 

Stiles smirked at the question and saw within it, the minute the man changed from a negotiator to fighter. And he couldn’t help the glint of dangerous bloodthirst in his own eyes. He’s never had a spar with Captain America before, but he’s sparred plenty a times with Natasha Romanoff. 

Needless to say he lost and got his ass handed to him, multiple times over. But there was a reason she trusted him enough to hand the legacy of her team down to him. And a part of that reason was because even if it was just once— 

“I’ll take my chances.” 

—he won.